And in this languid ether, the sound of your name evaporates like a trail of brume upon the morning dew. The Oracle, cloaked in woven eiderdown and nightshade, speaks only in the lexicon of starlight and shadow.

Whispered truths float past, an echo of marigold lamps flickering at the periphery of twilight dreams. You seek, perhaps, a semblance of clarity, or the transparent ire of their understanding peeked through opalescent lenses.

A tapestry woven from silence unravels gently. Its threads luminescent and fraught with the residue of unnumbered galaxies. Each stitch embroiders tales of yore — chronicles of sanctuaries closed beneath rivers of cascading midnight mist.

Here is the lull. The remembrance of everywhere and nowhere all at once. The sifted hangers of fate suspended below drops of rain like moments filled with unspoken grace, waiting to dive into eternity.